


Split: The Strange Case of Emma Swan

by MommyMaleficent



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Anti CS, Anti Hook, Captain Hook | Killian Jones Bashing, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan Bashing, Daddy Charming, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Magic, Mommy Snow, Multi, Non-Sexual Age Play, Self-Harm kinda, Self-Hatred, anti captain swan, little Emma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-08 09:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11079024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MommyMaleficent/pseuds/MommyMaleficent
Summary: Emma is in for quite the ride when she wakes one morning to find another Emma lying next to her and sucking her thumb in her sleep. After a rude awakening of her own, the other Emma demands to see “Mommy and Daddy” and won’t cooperate further until she gets what she wants.What the hell is going on?Hiatus





	1. In Which Emma Finds a Familiar Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given this a lot of thought, and against my better judgement, I’m posting it now. In TEtWD, I wrote each chapter ahead of time and published one every day til it completed. Now though, since I find myself very distracted (and I'm having trouble, honestly), I’m hoping putting this up will motivate me to finish.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Emma opened her eyes that morning, unaware of any dreams she had the night prior, she expected to see one of two things: her husband beside her, as he ought to be, or the bed empty, save her.

She did not expect to find another version of herself, still asleep, thumb planted firmly in mouth, and clutching in a half-opened fist a knit fabric made of bulky white yarn and purple ribbon weaving between its outermost stitches—a bold border to finish a soft baby’s blanket.

At first, such a queer display did not fully register from her eyes to her mind, which was still drowsy from a long night’s work of untangling her feelings and thoughts of the previous day, and Emma turned over in nonchalance and heaved a sigh at having awoken a slight too early. The analog clock on her bedside table read forty-eight past, but her alarm was due for 7 o’clock sharp. There was no point in going back to sleep now that her body had gone through the trouble of waking so close to her usual time, so she yawned and rolled over onto her back once more.

And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw something move. The other Emma, still sleeping, twitched her nose like a rabbit, squeezed her eyes shut tighter, and made a small noise of discomfort before burying her face deeper within the pillow and sinking back into the confines of slumber.

Emma sat up promptly. She was fully awake now, and without a sliver of an idea on what to do about this strange other person with her face sleeping beside her undisturbed. From whence did she come, and why? How did she, and for how long has she been? So many questions for such an early hour; it was nothing short of impossible for her to try and come up with answers before she even had her first brew of coffee.

She pulled back the blankets as the other slept on, quickly and swiftly made her way to the master bathroom, and shut the door, taking great pains to be silent as possible. At the sink, she took a little less care with twisting the knobs, first cold then hot, and then she thought better of the hot and dialed it back a switch. She splashed her face a few times before she looked herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide and rimmed red like she’d been crying even though she knew she hadn’t. She was thinner than she remembered ever being even in her younger days, with sallow cheeks and a pallid complexion, and her blonde hair, while still bright as sunshine on a summer’s day, looked thin and more Dark Swan-white than the gold of which her eyes were accustomed to see framing her face. She was a real-life Tim Burton character if she ever saw one.

“You’re okay,” she said, her voice raspy and not without doubt, “There’s a reasonable explanation in here somewhere. Just get ready for the day, and go look for it. You got this.”

To make absolute certain she was awake, she splashed herself with cold water two more times, and went about her morning routine. As she got the toothpaste on her toothbrush, the unmistakable sound of her husband’s smooth voice caught her ears and she listened intently. He said his good mornings to the girl she left lying in their marital bed, no doubt mistaking her for his wife, and the lull in the one-sided conversation was soon broken by an unyielding scream of terror. Pitiful wails from the girl he now knew not to be his wife soon followed alongside grunts and groans and pleas from him to cease her noise and attack, and Emma, in her haste, dropped everything into the sink and threw open the bathroom door to witness the scene.

The girl with her face, who was now very much awake, had retreated to her side of the marital bed, armed with the hard pillow on which she had been peacefully sleeping moments before. His. She was standing on her knees, taking aim and whacking him on the head with it over and over with all her might and main, frightened and shrilly hysterical. He was trying in vain to grab hold of what was his with his one hand, all the while demanding she please settle down and _just give him the damn pillow_. In response, she changed tactics and hit him on the side before going again for his head, where she struck him yet again with perfect tenacity, screaming he leave her be at once, although not so eloquently, and not in such formal terms.

It was surreal, almost comical, to watch her husband take a beating from a girl who looked like her, in blue grid pajamas instead of the red she currently wore, and Emma watched their battle with slack-jawed, wide-eyed passivity.

He noticed her first, once he backed away far enough to avoid being hit. “Emma?” The surprise in his voice was palpable, so was his relief to know it was not really her who was all but hellbent on using him for target practice.

The girl finally ceased her howling, and turned her head as well, red cheeks marred with tear tracks, and long hair beyond unkempt, taking in heavy breaths to make up for all her noise, and upon seeing Emma, gave a cry of recognition, threw the pillow at her husband, and scampered off the bed towards her. Emma took a startled step back when she got close, but that did not discourage the girl at all from throwing her arms about Emma’s shoulders and weeping openly into her chest with fresh tears and even more distressing sobs. What words she spoke were too incoherent to be understood amidst her blubbering.

Her husband watched them with interest. Emma, after sharing a look with him, was forced to kick him out of their room in favor of getting to the bottom of the situation she unwittingly found herself in first. She did so silently, pointing at the door with her eyes, only turning her head once he furrowed his brow at her in reply, as though reluctant to understand there simply not being a use in his staying a moment longer.

After he conceded, and left their room with considerable grace and a closed door, Emma sighed, relieved, and went to work soothing the crying girl with whom she shared a face.

“He’s gone,” she murmured, patting her back gingerly, unsure if the girl could even hear through her sobs. “Come on, it’s just us now.” Thankfully, once she started moving, the cries ceased almost immediately.

The girl’s tears have long run dry and it was only sound now, low whines elongated and pathetic each time she took a new breath. She blinked up at Emma with bleary eyes and quivering lips once seated at the foot of the bed, sniffling endlessly, obviously not ready to let go of her anguish in spite of her request being granted.

Emma felt nothing but a deep sorrow for her, as well as a shameful but hardly unearned pity. Was this how she looked when so thoroughly upset? How could anyone stand the sight of her? Without thinking, she reached out a hand and caressed a hot, sticky cheek, and the girl leaned into her touch with a hesitant whimper, and closed her eyes, and gently nuzzled the palm of her hand, soothed at long last. The girl with her face gave a shaky sigh as she opened her eyes, and kept Emma’s hand pressed to her face solemnly.

When she dared look up, the girl sniffled one last time. In a voice hoarse from her crying fit, she took in a sharp breath and said, with as much dignity as her current vulnerability allowed, in complete and utter seriousness:

“I want Mommy and Daddy.”

Emma blinked. “What?” It was entirely the wrong thing to say, for the girl’s face—her face—crumpled, and she weakly stomped her foot.

“I want Mommy and Daddy!” she cried plaintively, pushing Emma’s hand away from her cheek. She turned around and threw herself onto the bed, blanket and all, hiding her face under her arms. To Emma’s relief, no sound more escaped her lips.

Emma sighed again, crossing her arms in distaste. It was too early for such nonsense and she still hadn’t her coffee yet. For a few moments she watched the girl on her bed lie still, wondering what was going through her vexed mind at present in the event she could not get what she desired. How many tantrums would she have to sit through before her sympathies for the girl with her face waned, before she was at her wits’ end? It would be out of the question to kick her out, as Emma knew firsthand how awful a feeling it was to be unwanted, even on occasions where she left of her own accord. On the other hand, the girl could not stay if she continued to be disagreeable and cry at every little question like a spoiled and petulant child already denied her fancy. Her temperament left much to be desired, and it was unlikely she would react well to much of anything in this state.

And then there was the matter of her husband. First impressions were hardly ever right, but Emma could not deny the girl’s reaction to his morning advances was anything less than completely justified. Only time will tell if they ever reconcile, but for now there was no pushing it.

The alarm went on just then, announcing it was indeed time to wake, and she shut it off without fuss. Underneath the bedside table, in the topmost drawer, Emma pulled out her phone, and, as she unlocked it, spared a glance for the girl lying upset face-down, and found large green eyes watching her every movement. As she took a seat on the bed, facing her and on her designated side, she spotted the baby blanket left idle under her husband’s pillow where he had left it, and picked it up while making sure the pillow was properly returned to its rightful place. She examined it thoroughly, wondering if it was really her own or if the girl had brought it along from yonder she came, admittedly the more favorable option, before offering it to the girl with a slight tilt of her head.

The girl with her face lifted her head up and revealed she was smiling, biting her lip as she up and crawled her way to the head of the bed beside her, kicking away most the duvet and resting her head in Emma’s lap with her prized baby blanket once more in her hands. She stared up at Emma with adoring eyes, batted her lashes endearingly, and gathered herself into a ball.

“Before I call my parents up here, I need you to answer a question,” Emma said, keeping her eyes on her phone screen. She scrolled through her contacts list up and down repeatedly, bracing herself for another unreasonable bout of crying in response to her reasonable request. To her surprise, and relief, there was no such reaction.

“What is it?” the girl asked, her voice just as serious as Emma’s own.

“Why do you look exactly like me?”

The girl did not respond immediately, and in fact seemed to be quite contemplative. She sat up, facing away, and raked her fingers through her messy hair, but did not shake it out when she was done as Emma would have. She heaved a small sigh of her own after a short pause and turned around again, and sat on her knees, and gently smoothed her blanket over them, and smiled sadly while wringing her hands. Her eyes shone with unshed tears even though she had cried them all away not so long ago.

“Cuz I’m you. But little. And I have something I need to do... so I’m here.” Little Emma bit her lip, unsure, and she lowered her gaze to Emma’s lap. “I-is that okay? Can I see Mommy and Daddy now, please?”

Emma nodded. Something was going change around here, this she knew. But what exactly... that she was not quite so eager to find out.

She picked a number and sent the call.

“Emma?” David’s voice was pleasant despite being laced with worry, even so soon in the day he was already used to speaking. “It’s so early; is something wrong?”

She had to smile, both at his tone and his intent. She looked at the girl who shared her face, and her smile lessened only slightly. “Nothing, yet, but how fast can you and Mom get over here?”


	2. In Which Snow and Charming Meet Her

They made it through their morning routine of washing and dressing in record time, but breakfast was a different affair.

Little Emma, as Emma officially agreed to address the girl with whom she shared a face in order to differentiate between themselves, vehemently refused to eat, drink, or touch anything that had been handled by male hands, lest it was offered to her by her father, who she always, insistently, referred to as her Daddy. Still in her pajamas as she also refused to consider dressing in the  _boring grown-up clothes_  she termed Emma’s wardrobe, she sat sulking at the table next to her namesake and as far away from Emma’s husband as possible, knees drawn to her chest and arms crossed to keep them there, eyeing the pancakes and warm milk he presented her with utter disdain like a child would medicine. Regardless, though they agreed her protest was indignant and juvenile, it also kept her quiet, and they carried on with their meal anyway.

Every now and again though, Little Emma would rock gently back and forth and stare wistfully at the front door, and ask when her parents were coming, if they even were at all. During these times, Emma would answer softly in the affirmative, take a sip of her coffee, and go about cutting up the girl’s pancakes into easily-manageable pieces, and offering a little to her in earnest attempt to coax her into eating. It was never in Emma’s nature to refuse food of any kind, especially when it was offered without threat of being forcibly snatched from her hands or her plate, and she suspected—rather, she hoped—Little Emma would be the same.

After the second attempt, Little Emma eyed the piece of pancake and the fork that held it suspiciously before she opened her mouth and allowed Emma to feed her a single bite. She chewed for an incredibly long time, perhaps accessing whether or not to spit it out at the last second, and had she decided to do so, Emma would have taken her plate away immediately. But she did not, and instead asked if she could eat by herself now, at least until their parents came so they can see she was being a good and polite girl, and perhaps they would praise her for it. Emma smiled, the first of many she hoped to give, for she could not help but see how endearingly pure and simple Little Emma’s mindset was, and passed her the fork without remark. Finally pleased, Little Emma returned her smile, sat properly in her chair, and began to eat, freely and contently, stacking three or four pieces at a time onto her fork before putting it all into her mouth, and licking the corners of her lips to clean away the sweet, sticky syrup.

Her husband also found this endearing, and did choose to voice his comments.

“Despite her attack on me earlier, I do believe I could grow to like her,” he said to his wife, probably realizing any attempt on his part to engage with Little Emma would result in a less-than-stellar reaction. He leaned toward Emma to give her a kiss, which at the very least would be a peck on the cheek, and she readied herself to accept when—

CLANK.

Their attentions went once more to Little Emma, who in turn was engrossed in staring at the sticky, maple-coated knife, which Emma had used to cut up her breakfast, that somehow made its way to the floor despite being placed nowhere near the edge of the table—Emma made sure of that each time she picked it up. Little Emma glanced up at her just then, looking nervous and very sorry with her large eyes and her lower lip, on which she was in the midst of chewing, readying herself for a scolding.

“I-I just wanted to...” she stammered, and looked to her breakfast plate, which had one whole pancake left, and a very crude attempt at dividing it into pieces.

Sighing, Emma picked up the knife and took it to the sink, snatched a rag from the handle of the oven and wet it before bringing it back and wiping up the small area of floor between their chairs. She felt Little Emma’s eyes following her all the while from the moment she went about the sink, and gave her a sympathetic smile once she was finished cleaning up.

“Don’t worry about it,” Emma said, “It was an accident. If you were having trouble, you should’ve told me.” She sat back down and tossed the rag across the table a little ways away to wash later. “Do you want me to do the rest?”

Little Emma nodded. “Yes, please. Thank you...”

* * *

Mary Margaret, David, and even little Neal arrived shortly after breakfast and no sooner whilst Emma was doing the dishes and her husband had left for the station. She sent Little Emma to sit in the living room once she finished her meal and brought her plate and glass to the sink, and that was where their parents found her after greeting Emma good morning, waiting patiently to be noticed and acknowledged as well. She had the most radiant smile on her face when Emma sent their parents in her direction, and her excitement was certainly palpable to all who bore witness to it. Even the sun, hidden by yellow curtains behind her, shone with greater intensity the moment she rose from the couch as though to emphasize her feeling of ecstasy at seeing their faces.

“Mommy! Daddy! Neal!” she cried, rushing to shower each cheek with kisses and every body with hugs and a little tickle under the chin for her baby brother, as well as some coos about how big he’s gotten since she saw him last, which was hardly so long.

David and Mary Margaret were stunned to silence at the sight of her, all but bolted to the floor with their mouths open in Mary Margaret’s case, but their lack of response did not deter Little Emma in the least. Her happiness at simply being in their presence was more than enough to convince little Neal he wanted some of her joy, and thusly began to fuss and squirm in attempt to free himself of his mother’s embrace.

Little Emma clasped her hands before her and batted her lashes prettily at her mother. “Can I hold him, Mommy, please?”

Emma put away the last of the dishes just as Little Emma’s smiles and joy were beginning to fade and she looked between her parents worriedly, and then extended the look to Emma when she drew near. By this point, Neal, upon finding himself still in the arms of his mother, albeit being shifted to the other side of her, began to cry, keeping his gaze firmly on Little Emma and reaching for her with vigor. His sobs snapped David out of his trance, who coaxed his absent wife into handing him the baby and went about soothing him himself, and scared Little Emma into jumping back, and she grabbed at Emma’s arm with both hands and pulled her closer than Emma would have liked to be at the moment.

“Did I do something bad again?” she asked, barely audible above the cries of a baby denied. One look at her showed she was very close to bursting into tears herself, and Emma immediately shook her head, unwilling to consider the possibility of dealing with two crying persons, one of whom was technically herself, simultaneously, even with her parents here to assist.

“No,” she said firmly, and she reached up to cup Little Emma’s cheek again in the hopes it would comfort her. “You’re fine.” She turned her sights to Mary Margaret, who had her hand over her mouth and was shedding silent tears of her own. “Mom?”

Mary Margaret released a shaky breath as she stepped forward between her daughters and hugged them both at once. Little Emma returned the hug immediately and clung to her, begging her mother please not to cry, and promising she’ll be a good girl for her and Daddy, and warning that if Mommy keeps crying she’ll start crying even though by then she already was. This sentiment encouraged Mary Margaret to be vocal with her tears, which only made things worse for Little Emma, who buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and clung to her even more, wailing with reckless abandon.

Emma, for her part, kept silent, and focused on rubbing her mother’s back while her eyes fixed firmly on her father and Neal, who was currently being bounced and quieting down, and sticking his fingers in his mouth for some added self-comfort. David surveyed the mess before him with calm eyes before mouthing, _What’s going on?_

“I wish I knew,” was Emma’s response.

* * *

It took ten minutes before the family of five were able to move on from standing awkwardly amidst the kitchen to being properly seated in the living room, with David and Mary Margaret taking the couch, Emma in her husband’s armchair, and Little Emma and Neal cheerfully playing amongst themselves before them all.

Little Emma was extremely careful with her baby brother, making sure she was properly seated cross-legged on the floor with her back against the couch and between her parents for good measure, before inquiring once more if she was allowed to hold him. She kept her voice soft and sweet when speaking so as not to frighten him, not that Neal showed any signs of even thinking about being frightened by her; in fact, he wouldn’t stop giggling when he was finally allowed refuge in her arms, and that delighted her immensely. She played peekaboo with him by hiding behind her hair, which she kept down as opposed to Emma, who tied hers up in a high ponytail, and looked in every which direction he pointed, and answered his babbles as if they were intelligent conversation with nods, _oohs_ , _ahhs_ , _you don’t says_ and _tell me mores_ , all of which he happily obliged. When she grew tired of holding him upright, she asked if he wouldn’t mind sitting with her before setting him down in the empty place between her legs, and turned her attention to Emma and her parents all smiles afterward, her need for play temporarily satiated.

Mary Margaret and David shared a look between them, and David reached a hesitant hand towards the crown of Little Emma’s head, perhaps in effort to prove this childlike version of their beloved daughter was truly sitting at their feet and playing with their son. His nerve failed him, however, and he did no such thing, but merely retracted his hand centimeters away from her in favor of reaching for his wife’s instead, and, squeezing it tight, heaved a small sigh of defeat at his cowardice. She rubbed his arm sympathetically before slipping her hand back into his own.

Emma cleared her throat, and all eyes went to her. She, however, only looked at Little Emma. “Okay. Mom and Dad and even Neal are here. Do you think you can tell us a little more about how you got here and what you need to do?” Her gaze softened when she saw her own green eyes grow wide with fear, and she felt the need to smile in reassurance. “Maybe we can help.”

Little Emma looked downward at the back of Neal’s little head and did not speak for a long time. She turned him around and gave him a long but calm hug and two loud kisses, one for each chubby cheek, before turning to face their parents. Looking between them, she asked, in a small and almost pleading voice, “Can I sit up there with you?”

Of course they allowed it—how could they not? David took Neal while Mary Margaret helped Little Emma onto the couch and seated her cozily beside them. When she was fairly comfortable, equipped with an encouraging smile from David and holding Mary Margaret’s hand, she finally turned back to Emma, who was trying in vain not to watch their interaction without a twinge of jealousy or annoyance.

But upon a moment’s reflection, Emma realized how ridiculous it was to feel so, and immediately regretted it. There was no reason for her to fret. Truly, none. They were still one and the same person.

Right?

Still, Little Emma bit her lip before she dared to speak again, and when words finally left her they were faint and somber. “I don’t know how to say it without making you mad...”

Emma furrowed her brow, but regarded Little Emma with the same patience she displayed during breakfast. “Why don’t you just start with who you are first, okay? Explain to Mom and Dad what you mean when you said you’re me, but _little_.” She resisted the urge to put the last word in air quotes, wary of Little Emma’s temper. Her consideration was not a complete success, as the girl with her face once again looked away, and seemed to be suppressing a great deal of emotion even after taking in a sharp sigh.

“I’m _just little_ ,” came Little Emma’s curt reply as she squeezed Mary Margaret’s hand. “I’m you, but _little_. Not big. _Little_.” She turned to their mother and father again, and her tight expression grew wild and even desperate. “Mommy, Daddy, you tell her!”

For the first time since she came in, Mary Margaret spoke, her hazel eyes blinking rapidly as though coming out of a daze. “As in... you’re a little girl?”

“Yes! ‘Zactly!” Little Emma gave her mother her full attention, folding her other hand over hers. “Why doesn’t Emma understand, Mommy?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You’re not exactly explaining it, you know. Just saying you’re little doesn’t mean anything, especially when that’s _all_ you say when I ask. Tell me _how_ you’re little.”

She was not prepared for the look of utter bewilderment on Little Emma’s face then. Tired though she was of revisiting this particular aspect of herself, Little Emma was completely taken aback at her lack of understanding. Emma watched her confusion melt into sadness, then pity, then disappointment.

“But it’s so simple...” she said, momentarily releasing a sympathetic Mary Margaret’s hand, “and you’re so smart, I thought you’d know right away.”

It was Emma’s turn to avoid her eyes. With a scoff, she muttered, “Clearly you have too much faith in me.”

“Or you don’t have enough.”

The retort was quick, reproachful, and defiant. Little Emma fixed upon her a gaze which made Emma’s blood freeze in fear. It was neither malicious nor benevolent, but of pure determination. One which demonstrated she knew far more than she ever intended to reveal, or at least, reveal in a manner Emma easily understood. One which captured the nuances that made each of them her own person beyond how they chose to style their hair that morning.

Little Emma’s cheeks were not sunken, but full, and warm, and rosy. Her complexion was delicate, devoid of all blemishes, and incredibly soft to the touch, smooth. When she smiled, her eyes sparkled as though there were fairy lights strewn about her irises, and carried through to her voice when she laughed from pretty pink lips which did not look as thin on her as they felt on Emma herself. Her hair was even a touch brighter, though perhaps that was just a trick of the light, thick and lustrous sunshine gold amidst a velvet couch of brown.

She was fair in every sense of the word, and snuggled so closely beside Mary Margaret and David it was only too obvious whose daughter she was, and in that regard Emma could not help but resent her. It was only a shame she did not realize it sooner.

Emma swallowed, but held her gaze for as long as she could, until Little Emma grew weary and forfeited the match, perhaps sensing Emma’s growing bitterness, and turned away to rub her eyes with her fists.

“I wanna go home with Mommy and Daddy! And Neal!” she cried, stomping her feet before throwing herself and burying her face under her arms in Mary Margaret’s empty lap. “I hate it here! I wanna go home!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a week since I posted the first chapter of this piece and even longer since I actually finished one, so here is my question. Please answer because it will drastically change the quality of this story. Should I:
> 
> A) do a POV switch alternating just between the two Emmas in the same manner of writing
> 
> B) keep the POV limited to a select few of the adult characters and have Little Emma’s antics be in the background, as this style is not so lenient in letting in letting itself be simplified (and/or I don’t have the skills to do so yet)
> 
> C) screw the style and try to simplify it for Little Emma’s bits if the answer to the dual POV part of the first option is a yes
> 
> If it’s not too much trouble, please also explain why because seeing your reasoning will help me to decide. Thanks!
> 
> (I wish polls were a thing here...)


End file.
